


with eyes ringed with coal dust

by aosc



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-17 05:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: Princess Lunafreya holds her jaw high. Her eyes are red rimmed, her shoulders slumped as she is escorted to the front of the gathering, but she won’t bow. There is a two man guard at her back. She looks out over the gathering. She doesn’t seek him out in the crowd. Not yet.Nyx holds his breath. The wind, nonexistent in the gorge, whines, a high pitched noise that travels through the razed levels of the temple. It dips into the gurgle of the nearby creek, and rustles the heavy crowns of the thickly grown trees. To his far left, at the end of the amassed crowd, Crowe meets his gaze. Her shoulders are tense, pitched forward in anticipation. They say,soon, and the intent seems to echo across the temple grounds.Soon.





	with eyes ringed with coal dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ienablu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/gifts).



> for the real mvp, ien. i’m honestly so glad this fandom’s brought us together as champions of all possible insomnian head canons.
> 
> i started this exchange writing the second prompt, then scrapped that in favor of this, only to scrap this idea in favor of the first prompt, only to then reroute and go back to this idea. it wouldn’t leave me alone, but it also grew continuously as i went with it, so it’s now a multi-chapter canon divergence (with a happy ending, because these are the holidays, after all). i had a fuckton of performance anxiety in b4 posting this because you deserve the best of things. i hope i can deliver on that.
> 
> happy holidays y’all in this fantastic fandom. you’re by far the most fantastic group of people i’ve shared fandoms with in a while ❤️

* * *

   
He crouches behind the boulder situated just inside of the riverbank. The stream is furiously lapping on it. The rain is light, more of a shroud blanketing the water surface, layering across his skin and mixing the blood that has clumped in his eyelashes, and dried across his cheek.

 

Nyx swipes the flat of his left Kukris over his knee. It comes away dark, murky with mud and blood. He pulls a deep breath, though carefully exhales, so as to not make any noise. The eastern bank has been compromised. The village is overrun, and the northern sea passages are cut off, the bay riddled with hover ships and iron cast longboats, gleaming with the red Niflheim coat of arms.

 

Distantly, he can still hear the dull raps of war machines clambering up the hills of the village. The screaming, the yelling, has stopped. He recites the prayer for wayward souls anyway, feels the words, unuttered, stick in his throat. He breathes deeply again.

 

There are large tears in the ground. From where the soil has cracked, caved beneath the Niff troops’ ceaseless firing squads. From the fires that’ve spread across the plains and down into the mountain. He’d felt it incept on the outskirts of the northernmost reaches of the village. It leads up to the glacial grottos, ends deep in the pit of the Nostrus. If he can just get there —

 

The wind picks up. It whines around the face of the rock, paws at the raw welts across Nyx’s cheeks. Something carries on it, sweet water, eucalyptus leaves and the cloying scent of the blue gum’s flowers; so achingly Galahdian that Nyx can feel it scrape on his bones, tug his ribs open halfway. But also something else.

 

Something sooty, and dark. The metallic burnish of drying blood.

 

The wind settles.

 

A branch snaps.

 

Nyx twists around, heart jackrabbit-starting in his mouth, both his Kukris angled outwards, upwards —

 

*

 

He wakes when something jostles the ground beneath him so hard his head snaps up and backwards, cracking against solid. Nyx heaves himself up, blinking conscious and reaching for his waist. His palms grip nothing but empty sheathes. The world wells up colorful, the darkness of unconscious leeching out of his vision rapidly.

 

He’s crouched on the dusty wooden floor of a moving train carriage. The walls are corroded and dark, rising behind huddled figures of people who are shielding their faces, their shoulders curled inwards, their fingers clasped as in prayer.

 

A palm cups over his shoulder. He smothers the urge to shudder and twist instinctually, and forces himself to turn carefully around.

 

“Crowe,” he breathes. The air slumps out of him, makes the strength go out of his knees.

 

Crowe digs her fingers deeper into the meat of his shoulder. “Hey,” she murmurs. “Thank Etro you’re here, Nyx. We thought you didn’t — “

 

He wraps her up in a hug before she has a chance to finish the sentence. Crushes her against his collar. “Yeah, I know,” he says. They’d gotten separated on two sides of the riverbank, and picked off, one by one, in the forest and around the bend of the mountain foot. He hasn’t seen her for three days, if not longer. “I’m okay. What about everyone else?”

 

“They’re okay,” she says, “Most of them. Lib and Pelna are in the car behind us. Luche and Hes should be ahead. Axis is over there,” she gestures ahead, to where Nyx spots the almost unidentifiable shape of dark clothes and hair, “He’s been out for as long as you.”

 

Crowe purses her lips. Nyx isn’t sure about whether it’s to hold back tears. Something is climbing into his throat, something sat rooted in his gut and in his chest, an unquantifiable mass of thorns that scratches on his insides. He forces himself to nod. To push the mass down again, down to grow sickly and large in his stomach.

 

“Are there — “ he says, and then swallows the rest of the words. He can’t say it. “Where’re we headed?”

 

Crowe makes a half shrug. “Somewhere in Imperial territory. Guards have kept it quiet.”

 

Which is when the car jostles again, heavily. Nyx steadies Crowe against himself. The train breaks, wheels screeching as they grind on their tracks, slowing. They look at each other. “We made any pit stops?” asks Nyx.

 

“A few,” says Crowe. “Fuel stop just before you woke up, so it can’t be that.”

 

The people sat along the walls are beginning to stir. Some of them, people that Nyx recognize from both his own, as well as neighboring villages, are slowly getting to their feet.

 

“Yeah,” he says, slowly, “Something’s different about this one.”

 

*

 

Nyx will never forget:

 

Funeral pyres piled high on Sylleblossom fields. Hot puffs of smoke rising up from the otherwise rich soil, now smelling like decay and rot. The brunt of two Imperial platoons escorting Tenebraen citizens onto helicarriers and northbound trains. Fenestala Manor, rising out of the rosy twilight sky like a set of elevated mirages, cast in shadow by fires now extinguished.

 

One of the Imperial soldiers at his back kicks out his left knee. “Kneel,” he snarls, and shoves Nyx down until he does, shins flat on the rough asphalt. He ducks his head and looks sideways, towards where Crowe is similarly weighed down. Her cheek is bleeding, an old wound reopened. Her lips are thin, her gaze bloodless as they lock eyes. She nods almost imperceptibly. Nyx forces his aborted anger to recede. He nods back, eventually.

 

*

 

Commander Ulldor looks down on him from where his stature rises far above Nyx’s. He’s still kneeling, skin punctuated by gravel and numbed since long.

 

“How interesting,” the commander says, “You’re not just any foot soldier for the GRF, are you?”

 

Nyx averts his gaze. He doesn’t reply. Bites his tongue, clenching his jaw against the need to — the urge to strike. To say something. To let the something in his stomach loose.

 

“Commander Nyx Ulric of the Galadhian Resistance Force, head operative and CO of the special forces division, call sign Couerl,” Commander Ulldor raises an eyebrow, “You and your division have caused my men quite some trouble recently, Mr. Ulric.”

 

“Sorry if I don’t sound all too apologetic about that,” says Nyx. He twists his hands as far as he can go, weighed down and taut in the iron casts that encircle his wrists.

 

“Indeed,” says Commander Ulldor. “And yet, here you are. In Imperial custody. Fate has its curious ways.”

 

_Fate_ , Nyx thinks, and thinks of blue gum tree flowers steeped in hot water, of wreaths of dried Myrlwood ivy nailed to doors and posts. Of ma, and of —

 

“Fate,” he repeats. The words come hoarser than he intends for them to. Commander Ulldor smiles.

 

“Fate, or circumstance. What’s important, regardless, is that the emperor has no use for dead special operatives, only live ones.”

 

“That so?” says Nyx, “Funny. Can’t imagine why.”

 

Commander Ulldor sneers. “Don’t play coy with me, boy. You have no leverage with which to bargain.”

 

_That’s not true_ , he thinks. He says nothing. He studies the general’s golden smooth armor. Scratches mar the shin plates. There’s an indent on the left knee. A glimpse of fabric beneath. Behind him is the far end of the dank cell, murky and wet in the pit of one of Fenestala’s air borne prison towers.

 

The commander’s lip curls, “This is your choice, Mr. Ulric. Be well aware that it’s your only choice. You can either pledge your servitude to the empire, and serve her faultlessly. Or, you may choose to face the firing squad at dawn. Choose well.”

 

*

 

Half a dozen men and women that Nyx recognize, and don’t, are marched out of their cells at dawn.

 

When Commander Ulldor shows up at Nyx’s cell door, the bars dripping with wet condense, the barest hint of light shining through the far corridor, he has to bite down on his tongue until he tastes iron, as to not say anything that he’ll regret.

 

“I believe you have a choice to make, Mr. Ulric,” says the commander.

 

Nyx swallows blood. He says nothing, remains closely fitted against the wall.

 

The commander smiles at his silence, at his bowed head, his subservient stance. “Very good, soldier,” he says.

 

*

 

Nyx will never forget:

 

Funeral pyres piled high on Sylleblossom fields. Hot puffs of smoke rising up from the otherwise rich soil, now smelling like decay and rot. The brunt of two Imperial platoons escorting Tenebraen citizens onto helicarriers and northbound trains. Fenestala Manor, rising out of the rosy twilight sky like a set of elevated mirages, cast in shadow by fires now extinguished.

 

The Imperial firing squad lining Galahdians up in the courtyard, backs facing the wall, chains linking them together, fear, linking them together.

 

A smatter of bullets against the old limestone, lodging in randomized patterns deeply in the wall.

 

*

 

The Imperial war machine officially resides within the Zoldara Henge. Nyx is brought in chains and escorted by a smaller platoon of soldiers, along with a slew of other survivors, at high morning to the gorge behind the palatial grounds. The trees grow thick and ancient to surround the gorge, and Nyx grips the inception of his chains in an attempt to quiet them. He feels the reverence that surrounds the place almost like a physically tangible thing, like it colors the air.

 

The temple’s been practically torn apart.

 

The high rising marble pillars have crumbled. Chips of stone have been shaved off the stairs, and the carved statues of the Lucian Hexatheon have partially been torn down. The ground is cracked, the natural walls of the cavity fissured. Three Imperial helicarriers have landed on the far north side. A few smaller cargo dropships are clustered to the east. Around the temple a dozen tents have been erected.

 

A captain-rank soldier comes to meet them. He salutes the soldier leading them. “Colonel Menera,” he says, “Permission to overtake the escort, sir.”

 

The colonel nods. “Permission granted, Captain Tummelt. Please proceed with the prisoners to Echo Camp.”

 

“Affirmative, sir,” says Captain Tummelt. He tugs at the extended chain. He doesn’t glance back as he starts walking.

 

Echo Camp is a chain link fenced area at the far of the area. An orderly row of barracks extend at the back. Before them, a few dozen men and women mill, aimlessly going back and forth along the fence.

 

Nyx recognizes Crowe’s predator prowl with a stuttering heart. She’s pacing at the far end of the area, neck craned, hands circling at her hips. At her side are Libertus and Pelna.

 

Nyx feels an actual drop from his lungs, a lead weight lifting. He fights down the urge to give them a sign, anything, that he’s here, by the Goddess.

 

They stop on the outside of a gate. Colonel Tummelt nods shortly to the two man guard post. They readily take the chain from the colonel without ado, as though they’ve perfected the exchange over the past few days. The exchange of lives without a single thought to it. Nyx grits his teeth. He looks down into the hard packed soil beneath his feet, grass trampled and whetted away from it.

 

Crowe and Libertus, Pelna at Libertus’s shoulder, are making their hurried way over as Nyx is escorted through the gate. He keeps his head angled down, his replies succinct, despite his heart beating in his mouth and jitters running through his legs, as the guard detail unhooks his wrists from the clasp and circled cuffs. He thinks, desperately, that they can’t afford to draw attention to themselves.

 

Libertus is the first to cross over to him, once the guard has ushered the entire group through. Once they’ve been unhanded, and been told to rise at dawn on the following day, and that there will be no permission to question the chain of command, at any point, or in any way. He pulls Nyx towards himself, fingers clutching at Nyx’s upper arms, bunching in the loose linen scraps of what remains of his undershirt from several days’ worth of fighting for his life. It’s torn, strips missing, streaked with blood and stained with dirt, and Nyx feels the exhaustion creeping like the call and beckon of the chains he’s just been released from. He fists his hands in the back of Libertus’s jacket, drawn dark in broad strokes with coal, scented with eucalyptus to blend into the environment of Galahd further – and Nyx aches. It tugs on him until he feels dizzy with it, the crash of fear and rage and helplessness clawing at him until he can’t breathe.

 

Distantly, through fog, the twist of a raging summer storm, he feels the strong clutch of Pelna’s arms encircle them both. Something sharp burrows into the soft areas of his side; Crowe has fitted herself into the space which no one else is occupying.

 

They remain like that, bunched together like they are things forgotten, mashed together because there’s no better place to stick them. On the outside, people have given them a wider berth, more space and more of the Tenebraen air, so inherently different to the humid summers of the Cavaugh archipelago.

 

*

 

“Bastards came at us from every angle,” Libertus says, later. They’re huddled together in the space between two cots in the farthest of the makeshift barracks. They’re barely standing; the roofs are tarps stretched thin between poles. The cots have been made out of piles of birch and ash, their sheets threadbare and stained. Crowe is leaned into the closest of the bed frames. Her hair is tangling in the branches that haven’t properly been severed. Where the inception of new branches haven’t been sandpapered down until they become smooth and round. Pelna is laying at her feet. Libertus is an extension of his legs, and Nyx yet another, sitting level with his knees. They form half of a circle, twisting in on itself but never quite reaching

 

Nyx frowns. “They shouldn’t have been able to cut through the forest.”

 

Crowe tugs three fingers through her fringe. “We figured out they pulled drones out for scouting. The tech is insane. Hes shot one out of the sky at Pellam Peak. It’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen, Nyx.”

 

The words settle like lead in Nyx’s stomach. “So the whole time — “

 

“We were just sitting ducks,” says Libertus.

 

Pelna twists his head. He hushes them. “There’s no way anyone could’ve known.”

 

Crowe snorts. She shakes her head. When she looks up, her mouth his hard set against the shine in her eyes. “That was the point, wasn’t it?”

 

*

 

Nyx twists on the cot. The uneven frame digs into his back. Above, on the taut tarp roof, small rain patters. He has no way of telling the time.

 

He sinks in and out of different dreamscapes, as vivid and as real as memories. At times, the two interchange, memories dredging up, as colorful and convoluted as dreamscapes:

 

“ _Selena_!” he screams, raw throat filling up with smoke, and bile. He rounds the corner of a house collapsing on itself, flames forking up the wooden façade. She’s there, just within reach. She’d been shielding the Lyrion twins, selflessly putting herself between the destruction and the children, and Nyx’d thought, don’t, don’t, as they’d twisted deeper into the village.

 

He tugs the scrap bit of shawl he has wrapped around his neck to situate at the bottom of his face. The smoke is thickening, curling across the main roads and situating itself like a timber dry blanket over the sky.

 

He tries to go faster, to will his legs to extend, his steps to cover more ground. His lungs are burning, his throat drying, air scraping up and down until his airways are too tight to force. He pulls the shawl higher, to cover his nose. They’re silhouettes, flayed orange and dark grey against the towering flames stretching through the village.

 

Time is drawing taut, slowing and quickening. He’s running, forward, he thinks. The scene around him duplicates, warps and flattens. The only sense he’s left with is that there’s not enough time, she’s too far ahead, he’s not going to make it. _Selena_ , he thinks, though his thoughts are slowing. He’s losing ground on them. _By Etro, let me reach her, just let me get there in time_ —

 

The ground moans, and cracks. The otherworldly buzz of giant mechanics starts to fill the air until it’s alive with it. Out of the whorls of smoke and ash one leg uncovers itself. Then another. Nyx skids to a halt, puts his boots down into the slick mud and locks his ankles until he’s still. He’s panting, coughing into his collar. His vision is swimming, but he needs to keep his eyes trained on the MA-X mech clambering forward.

 

He remembers this.

 

The realization makes him sway on his feet. If he remembers this, that means, that reaching farther ahead, he’s going to reach them. He’s going to find them —

 

*

 

Nyx gasps awake. What he sees, before he actually sees:

 

Funeral pyres piled high on Sylleblossom fields. Hot puffs of smoke rising up from the otherwise rich soil, now smelling like decay and rot. The brunt of two Imperial platoons escorting Tenebraen citizens onto helicarriers and northbound trains. Fenestala Manor, rising out of the rosy twilight sky like a set of elevated mirages, cast in shadow by fires now extinguished.

 

The scent of blue gum trees, flowers spilling from the low hanging branches. The sweet water river, thunderous and wide, the farther from the mountain it runs. The scent of blood, and machine gun ammunition being wasted, hard case shells littering the mud of the riverbanks, slowly sinking through and into the earth. The screams of those who are taken away, and those who never make it as far as into captivity.

 

Far off, there’s the rushing noise of something running. The waves, roiling, or the stamps of an infantry approaching.

 

“Nyx, hey. _Nyx_.”

 

He startles. Blinks the images away, startlingly vivid but already fading.

 

Libertus is crowding a palm over Nyx’s shoulder. His face is closed off. “They’re rounding everyone up.”

 

*


End file.
